Riley drifted in and out of consciousness, her body oscillating between pain and fever. Every time she surfaced, she felt the dull throb of her wound and the weight of exhaustion pulling her back under. When she finally managed to open her eyes fully, she realized she was lying on a woven mat inside one of the village huts.

  The air smelled of smoke and herbs. Someone had wrapped her side with strips of cloth. Her shirt, torn during the fight with the caribou, had been repaired with careful, uneven stitches.

  A murmur of voices drifted through the uneven seams of the wooden door. She turned her head, wincing, and peered through a crack.

  Three figures stood in the village square.

  They were massive, broad-shouldered soldiers with skin like weathered stone, armored in worn leather and metal plates scarred by use. Their faces were almost human, with heavy brows, flattened noses, and hard mouths, but their yellow eyes marked them as something else entirely, cold and watchful. Each hand ended in three thick fingers each tipped with a blunt claw.

  Across their armor were three red claw marks, cut deep and deliberate, their symbol worn without ornament or pride. The same mark Riley had seen on her pursuers the day she first arrived in this world, but this time, on different bodies.

  They stood in silence, disciplined and unmoving, not snarling or threatening. They didn’t need to. Their presence alone made their danger unmistakable. Their stillness felt like patience, as if they were simply waiting for the order to advance.

  It was clear to Riley these solders were from the Clawborn Dynasty.

  Their stillness didn’t last. Moments later, the quiet discipline shattered.

  Even from the hut, she could hear their harsh voices. She watched them shove villagers aside, kick over baskets of gathered wood, strike anyone who moved too slowly. Adults with missing tongues tried to communicate with frantic hand signs, but the soldiers ignored them, or punished them for it.

  Riley tried to push herself up, but her vision swam. Her arms trembled. She sank back down, helpless, as the scene blurred and darkened.

  She passed out again.

  When she next woke, the light filtering through the hut was softer, morning or evening, she couldn’t tell. Her clothes had been mended more thoroughly. Someone had cleaned the dried blood from her skin.

  Riley pushed herself upright, holding her injured side with one arm. She staggered to her feet, bracing herself against the wall, and stepped outside.

  The villagers were gathered in small clusters. She spotted Mali right away. The girl sat near the firepit, clutching the little cloth doll Riley had made her. The moment she saw Riley, she looked both ways as if crossing a busy street and bolted toward her.

  “Riley! You’re awake!”

  Riley knelt slowly, trying not to grimace. “I’m okay. Just… sore.”

  Tear tracks streaked Mali’s dirty face.

  “Are you ok? What’s wrong? What happened?” Riley asked, grabbing Mali’s arm with the hand that wasn’t pressed to her side.

  Mali leaned into her, and Riley felt fresh tears hit her shoulder.

  “The monsters are back,” Mali whispered. “They’re very mad. Maybe we didn’t collect enough for them. We tried, but my friend’s mother…” Her voice wavered, and the rest fell apart before she could say it.

  Riley had forgotten about the monsters she’d seen in the square. For a moment, she’d almost convinced herself it had been a pain induced hallucination. But no, this was real. She looked around now, not scanning for traffic but for any sign of the creatures.

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  She pulled the little girl closer. Guilt twisted in her chest. She wanted to promise she could fix everything, but life didn’t work that way. Besides, she could barely stand.

  Two adults approached, gently lifting Riley by the arms. They guided her back into the hut, laying her down again and tended to her wounds. A practice they felt unfortunately skilled at. One pressed a warm cloth to her forehead. Another adjusted her bandages.

  Riley tried to stay awake, but the world dimmed again.

  The next time she woke, there was shouting outside.

  Riley pushed herself upright, her body trembling but stronger than before. She staggered to the door, bracing herself on the frame. Outside, the three Clawborn Dynasty soldiers were back, barking orders and terrorizing everyone.

  Riley stepped out of the hut.

  Her legs buckled. She fell forward, landing hard in the mud. The impact splashed across her face, coating her skin in a thick layer of brown.

  She pushed herself up onto her hands, dazed.

  One of the soldiers spotted her and marched over. He grabbed her by the arm and hauled her upright. Mud dripped down her cheeks, hiding her features, hiding the fact she wasn’t one of the villagers.

  He shook her hard. “Move faster!”

  Riley tried to pull free, but her strength was no match. Another soldier struck her across the back, and she collapsed again, breath knocked out of her.

  A slurred shout rose from the crowd.

  Mali’s father stepped forward, hands raised in a pleading gesture. He tried to put himself between Riley and the soldiers, shaking his head, signing frantically.

  The soldiers dropped Riley and turned their attention towards him instead. They seized him immediately.

  One of them turned to the villagers and barked something sharp and cruel. Riley couldn’t understand the words, but the meaning was clear enough: this is what happens when you resist.

  Two soldiers held Mali’s father by the arms. The leader stepped close, shouting in his face, then turned to the crowd again, gesturing angrily.

  Riley pushed herself up on her elbows, horror rising in her throat.

  Mali stood frozen a few yards away, her mother’s hand clamped over her mouth to keep her from screaming. The doll dangled from her other hand, forgotten.

  The leader drew a dagger.

  Riley’s breath caught.

  She locked eyes with Mali.

  The girl’s face twisted in silent terror as the soldiers made their “example.”

  Riley tried to crawl forward, but her body wasn’t able to do it. The world tilted. The sounds blurred. The last thing she saw was Mali collapsing into her mother’s arms, the doll falling into the dirt.

  ***

  Riley woke to pain, and to a presence she didn’t recognize.

  An old woman crouched beside her, half-hidden in the low firelight. She wore a wide, crooked hat stitched with charms and bone beads, its brim casting her eyes in shadow. Her clothes were layered with cords and necklaces, each strung with dried leaves, teeth, and small clay tokens stained dark from years of handling. The air around her smelled sharp and bitter, like crushed herbs and smoke.

  Riley managed to lift her head a fraction before it dropped back down, vision swimming. She wasn’t healing. The pain in her side was worse, hotter, like something angry had taken root inside her. The caribou’s wound hadn’t closed. It had festered.

  The woman hummed softly as she worked, a low, pulsing rhythm with no familiar melody, something that felt more like a chant than a song. It felt old. Tribal. Like something learned long before words were needed. In her hands, she worked a pestle in a mortar, grinding together thick pastes from a collection of small clay pots arranged with careful precision.

  Riley tried to roll onto her side.

  Fire exploded through her abdomen.

  She gasped and looked down.

  The wound along her belly was swollen and livid, the flesh around it angry, red and purple. Thick pus oozed from the gash. The smell made her stomach turn.

  Beside the healer sat a shallow ceramic fire bowl. Glowing coals rested inside it, and every few moments the woman tossed in small dried leaves. They crackled softly, releasing pale smoke that curled upward in lazy spirals.

  “What… what are you doing…?” Riley rasped.

  The old woman didn’t look at her.

  She dipped two fingers into the paste she’d made and pressed it directly into the wound.

  Riley braced for agony.

  Instead, cool relief spread through her like water over burned skin. The heat dulled. The pain eased just enough for her breath to steady. She stared, stunned, as the healer smoothed the ointment with slow, deliberate strokes, humming all the while.

  Then the smoke thickened.

  The healer lifted the fire bowl and fanned the smoke toward Riley’s face with her free hand. It washed over her, bitter, herbal, overwhelming.

  Riley coughed, chest tightening.

  She tried to turn her head away, but her body wouldn’t obey. She inhaled despite herself.

  Colors bled into her vision. The firelight fractured into reds and golds and impossible blues. Shapes moved where there shouldn’t have been movement. The healer’s humming deepened, echoing, stretching until it felt like it came from inside Riley’s skull.

  Riley saw was the old woman’s shadow leaning close, necklaces clinking softly like warning bells.

  Her eyes rolled back.

  Then everything dissolved into black.